The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Page A

world slid sideways. I staggered, found a chair, pushed the small box on it onto the floor and sat down. The box split, but the contents did not spill out onto the floor as the lid was tied on with pink ribbon. I rubbed my temple. What was I doing here? I needed a good night’s sleep. I picked the box up off the floor, untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
    Inside was a stash of letters, beneath which was a bundle of leather-bound notebooks, tied with more ribbon. I picked out a letter at random and opened it carefully. The paper was thin and yellow with age, the postmark 3 rd March 1907. In French it read:
     
    My dear Berthe,
    I am bound for Marseille on the SS La Gascogne. I cannot say when it will arrive. You should not expect me before 1 st June as I have much business. I dare say the wedding is off, or at the very least postponed. Your last letter went astray and only reached me when I got to New York. I was troubled by your account of your last performance. It seems as if you are trying to recapture your lost youth. It is gone my dear. You are best to accept it as so.
    Robert
     
    Interesting. I set the letters carefully aside, took the notebooks out and pulled the ribbon free. I skimmed a couple of pages and found:
    “I have a sitting at eleven for Monsieur Helleu. He is to begin the painting Robert has commissioned. I do not care to sit still for so long.”
    Did she mean the painting? I flicked through the second notebook, coming to rest at a passage that talked of singing in Roméo and Juliette and of preparing to welcome Robert back from New York.
    “Robert has promised me a June wedding. I have been measured for my dress. Racine came with me. She thinks I should have my hair dressed by the ladies’ Gronheim. I do not care for their use of flowers with everything. I prefer diamonds. I have told Robert nothing of my part as Juliette. He does not approve. I cannot simply give up my career. I have striven for too long to achieve fame.”
    I frowned and picked out another letter. Robert was spare with words. There was no, sentiment, no kindness; he was abrupt and cold, talking of further delays and people he had met in Marseille, including a wonderful (his word) woman by the name of Marianne Cloutel, whom he wanted Berthe to meet. He talked of her as his ‘protégé’. I looked for the corresponding dated passage in the diary. Berthe was still speaking of Robert in glowing terms. She made no mention of his new ‘mistress’.
    “Robert really is the kindest of men. He wishes to postpone our nuptials. It is as well, as I have been asked to go on tour and reprise Juliette. Gounod’s words salve my aching heart. Racine has made me promise not to worry over much about Robert’s absence. I do so rely on her good sense.”
    Racine? Was she a friend? Or perhaps the maid Laurent had mentioned? Whichever, I was sure now that if I wanted to understand what had happened to Berthe, I would have to read the contents of the letters and diaries very carefully. I packed the papers away and closed the lid on the box. I had no watch to go by and so did not know the time, but my stomach told me it must be nearly lunch. I could go down to the café on the corner and read some more. I would leave a message with the Pascals to send Laurent there when he arrived.
    I retied the ribbon around the box. As I did, I heard someone crying. I dare not look, and yet… out of the corner of my eye I saw her. She had covered her face with her hands, but it was clear - she was crying. I allowed myself a better look, turning towards her very slowly, afraid that any abrupt movement might fracture the vision. She sighed, stood up, as if in a dream, and crossed the room to the door. At which point, her image faded until she was no longer there.
    I let out a breath. She had been there, next to me. I could have touched her if I had reached out… or at least felt her presence like a wind. Yes, that was it – she was like a wind that took your breath